


Prince of Doom

by CloudDreamer



Series: Demon Eyes [20]
Category: Dr Carmilla (Musician), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:06:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: She sits on a beach in the middle of no where and grieves for a world that's still here.
Series: Demon Eyes [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698556
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Prince of Doom

She is a destroyer. 

Carmilla is the string of computer code that turns malicious. She is the fire, set for warmth but doomed to grove out of control and consume everything she was meant to protect before dying out, but she never dies. Her existence is a reminder of the inevitability of death. She’s a ticking bomb, always on the edge of an explosion, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop the timer. She can just slow it. 

She knows what it feels like to die a hundred times over, and each time, something in her breaks further. It started like a hammer to glass, sending spiderweb cracks through everything to do with her, and she still feels the brutality of that first death every time she closes her eyes. Eventually, there won’t be any glass left in the stained window she used to be. There’s a knot in her chest that will unravel, and when it is unravelled, she will be unleashed upon this world. If it’s a choice between her pain and the pain of others, she’d pick her own, but she doesn’t get that choice. She didn’t want this, she says, but it’s meaningless what she wants. She is drowned by the weight of inevitability. 

She is the end of the line. 

She sings and screams and tries so hard to make something good, but nothing that’s good can last, and g-d, she lasts. She is the last one standing on battlefield after battlefield. 

She sits on a beach of jagged stones that dig into her bare feet, legs crossed and arms around them. She looks so small in the shadow of the Silvana. The reflection is perfect, capturing every little detail of her. It is still, undisturbed by harsh winds and untouched by pollution. It is untouched by the corrupting forces of empire that brought her world to the breaking point. It would’ve collapsed anyway, she wants to say. They were too far gone. She was the lost generation, the last generation, and she would’ve burnt with her people. For the longest time, she even believed that, but now all she has is the bitter certainty that there was another way. She’s seen worse recover. She grabs a sharp stone and throws it into the waves, disturbing her own reflection and letting the edges cut deep into her hand. But it recovers. It always recovers. 

This sun beats down on her, calling to the explosive force her skin can barely contain, and she wants to scream. She wants to stand and scream at the unfairness of it all, how futile this pretty evening is in the grand scale of things. That star will burn out and leave this beauty an unrecoverable mess; why does it bother existing at all? What’s the point of anything good? 

It will last in her memory, and only in hers, an image strong enough to keep it from resting in the peace of oblivion but vulnerable. It will be twisted past recognition, made into a symbol of her suffering like it’s not what’s gone. Life like this deserves something better than her self-indulgent grief. But she is what is left, and she is the end of endings.


End file.
